by GJ Kelly
oOo
59. Welcome Aboard
The journey to Porthmorl was uneventful bar a hurried night-crossing of the path to Jarn from Callodon Castletown. The evening had been blustery but cloudless, starlight obliging them all to wait until Reesen declared the way clear for the large group of men and horses to nip across the broad thoroughfare and make enough distance from it not to be observed when, shortly afterwards, they made night camp.
Rain later on the 16th dampened clothing but not spirits, the land around them becoming scrubby, gorse and shrubs proliferating in soil too poor for cultivation. They rode quickly but with all due care and attention for the horses and for their own safety; the escort and the scouts had their work cut out ensuring no enemies lurked in the larger blisters of gorse beyond the extent of Reesen’s Sight.
Conversation was difficult on horseback in such terrain, the path trending slightly east of south but in reality winding around the many obstacles sprouting from the rough and stony soil. Such conversations as there were took place in the night camps, the seven huddled around the casket in its rucksack, sipping hot drinks or hot stew from the camp stoves tended by the Callodonian escort.
There was a distinct distance between the two groups, in spite of the fact that all the men of the escort had served at Far-gor. The men of the Orbquest guarded the casket and each other jealously, and had shared hardship and tribulations the like of which the men of Callodon could only imagine. The fact that three of the quest were Gorians, even though their uniforms were hidden beneath their new Callodon cheapcloth garb, added to the slight tension between them too, a tension which seemed to rise the closer they came to the sea.
In truth, there wasn’t much for anyone to say. After the rigours of the forest and the constant threat of the shadow-creature, men relaxed nerves taut as bowstrings and quietly regained their strength, good sleep and hearty fare restoring bodies as well as spirits. Only one thing remained to be done, and that was the crossing of the miles to the sea, and the disposal of the Orb. They had run together, they had fought together, and now they were travelling the final miles of their journey together.
The redness in Gawain’s hands and arms was slowly fading, and according to Allazar, if they continued to heal at their present rate, his limbs would be their normal selves by the time they returned from disposing of the Orb. Gawain still had no feeling in them though, and it was frustrating. Simple tasks like brushing Gwyn or tightening the cinch on her saddle were made clumsy by unfeeling fingers, and he found himself frequently checking to see if he’d unwittingly injured himself, especially after paring frak with a sharp boot knife while on the move.
More scouts were encountered, the patrol sent out from Castletown clearing the way to Porthmorl and then looping back to strengthen the numbers of the Callodonian escort, and the three Gorians found their discomfort rising again. They knew they were no longer needed to safeguard the Orb, and knew therefore that their lives hung by the thread of Gawain’s word to Berek, his promise of safe passage west.
The salty ozone scent of the sea began to overpower the aroma of wet earth two days out of the harbour town, and the land began a gentle but noticeable downward slope towards the south. The scent and the terrain added a new sense of urgency to their pace, which quickened accordingly, until finally, at dusk on the evening of March 19th, the large group of riders entered the outskirts of Porthmorl to the sound of their horses’ hooves clopping on the cobbled road that led through the town and down to the docks.
No-one was about, though lights in windows told that residents were at home; streets had been cleared for the safe passage of the Orb and its escort, and it was distinctly eerie. Gulls wheeled overhead, squawking and screeching, the air filled with the smells of the sea, salt, ozone, fish, and tar. Men at arms lined the docks, spaced wide apart but watchful, gaily-painted fishing-boats moored alongside, nets, bales, barrels and crates arranged apparently at random by warehouses closed up for the night.
Tyrane stepped forward from a group of men standing on the grey and well-worn granite of the dockside beside a sleek, two-masted vessel, doubtless the coastal brigantine Melusine. The ship rested in quiet repose, thick and heavy mooring-hawsers looped over large cast-iron bollards, timbers and fenders creaking gently in the slight swells in the deep-water harbour.
The Callodon escort held back, coming to a respectful halt well short of the ship, allowing the seven of the Orbquest to continue the last thirty yards of their journey to the ship alone. Five yards from Tyrane, Gawain eased Gwyn to a halt, and they dismounted.
“Well met, my lord,” Tyrane smiled. “And welcome to Porthmorl.”
“Well met, Tyrane,” Gawain smiled, stepping forward to clasp the officer’s arm with no small measure of relief. “And thank you for the escorts. Our journey here was as smooth and uneventful as our time in the forest was hard and filled with pain. We’ll all rest easier once we’re at sea, and the foul device we carry at last committed to the deep.”
“New friends, my lord?” Tyrane asked quietly, looking over Gawain’s right shoulder, “And I do not see Major Jerryn of Juria?”
“Alas,” Gawain sighed, “Jerryn fell. And yes, three new friends, though there’ll be time enough to talk when we’re at sea. We’re all anxious to embark and to see this quest ended.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Tyrane waved towards one of the men standing beside a broad gangplank bridging the gap between dock and vessel, and he ambled forward with a curious, swaying gait. The man was old, most of his craggy, wind-burned face hidden behind an immense grey beard and whiskers, a battered cap crammed onto a head covered with unruly grey curls. He looked like a very much older and leathery version of Brock of Callodon.
“This is Captain Balhaggan, my lord.”
“Captain.”
“M’lud. Wind’s on the turn, should be able to let slip in an hour, unless you want the men to stroke us out with the oars?”
“An hour more or less on the journey we’ve had will make no difference, Captain, and will give us time to settle aboard. Some of us have never been to sea before.”
Balhaggan shrugged, and his eyes creased with good humour. “Not to worry, m’lud, me and the crew have. Come then, and welcome aboard the Melusine.”
Gwyn was far from happy at being abandoned again so soon after the reunion with her chosen rider. But the men of the Callodon Heavies knew well how to tend horses, and Gawain was contrite enough for the Raheen charger to limit her protests to a grumble and a snort, and to give him a nudge with her hindquarters as she was led away by the red-headed Vinn.
Gawain watched her go, smiling, and he and Tyrane were the last to board the vessel. They were shown to a cabin at the stern of the vessel which likely served as the Captain’s quarters when the brigantine was in normal service. It would be cramped with eight of them sharing the space, and the hammocks which would serve them all save Gawain looked fragile and uncomfortable hanging limp from hooks on one bulkhead. A narrow bed in the corner of the cabin was, of course, set aside for the King of Raheen.
The Orb casket, still in Ognorm’s rucksack, sat upon a long oak table, and the rest of their own packs lay beneath that table in the shadows cast by two lanterns swinging gently on hooks fixed firmly in the deckhead above them. Gawain had to stoop slightly in the confines of the cabin as it was, and had to take care not to walk into the lamps and other nautical items which hung about the place.
Commands could be heard from on deck, ropes being cast off and the vessel being gently swung away from the dockside, bows slowly coming around to point out to sea.
“Begging yer pardon, melord, do them winders open?” Ognorm pointed at the bottle-glass windows that ran the width of the cabin at the stern. “Only I ain’t bin on a boat before an’ I reckon I might have to stick me ‘ead out there from time to time.”
“Alas, I know not. Tyrane?”
“Alas, nor I.”
Berek eased through them, operated a pair o
f catches, and swung a quarter window open. “There you are, Oggy, you should be able to get your head out there if you start to feel rough.”
“Arr, thanks, Serre, it’ll be handy if’n I can’t make it up top in time.”
“By your leave, Imperator, I’d like to go topsides,” Loryan asked quietly, and Berek glanced at Gawain, who nodded.
“I’ll join you, Loryan. I’m beginning to understand your dislike for confined spaces on a ship.”
“Imperator?” Tyrane gasped. “That is the title adopted by Imperial commanders, is it not?”
There was a sudden, uneasy silence in the cramped cabin.
“It is,” Gawain announced softly. “Though it matters not, Tyrane. These men have my safe-conduct, and are friends.”
“Then, my lord, your new friends best learn not to use such obvious references to their identity aboard this vessel. This is one of his Majesty’s coastal brigantines, its purpose is the fast interception and destruction of Gorian slavers and pirates operating in allied waters. There is much more fighting at sea than is generally known by those on land, and it would not be wise for the men of the Melusine to learn that men of the Imperial Guard are aboard.”
“My apologies, Serre,” Loryan whispered.
“For nothing,” Gawain replied. “The discipline of many years service is hard to break. No matter, with luck we’ll have few dealings with Balhaggan and his crew, though it’ll make matters later a trifle interesting, once the Orb is overboard. Come, let’s get some fresh air. Reesen, with us please, and you Tyrane. The rest of you should perhaps remain here below at least until we are well at sea.”
On deck, all was quiet and well-ordered activity, the ship pointed towards a large expanse of water between the east and west harbour walls, the gap barred by a rope boom hanging between squat towers at the end of each wall. Gawain and his companions took a position well out of the way in the starboard quarter of the poop deck, watching in the gloom as men scurried aloft in the rigging, and Balhaggan stood beside the large spoked ship’s wheel overseeing his command.
Reesen studied the crew, as Gawain of course expected of him, ensuring that nothing dark had slipped aboard unnoticed. Behind them, ashore, men of the Guard were assembling to watch their departure.
“Captain Balhaggan will expect to be given a course once we clear the harbour walls and are in open sea, my lord.”
Gawain nodded, thoughtfully. Now that they were aboard the ship, its well-caulked and mature timbers firm beneath their feet, decisions needed to be made which had seemed far off and of little importance during their flight through the twilight world of Calhaneth.
“Tell him to head due south, then west, and put us thirty miles offshore of Raheen.”
“Raheen, my lord? That’s a long way to the west of here. I believe we were all expecting a straight run out to sea and back again.”
“Do we not have provisions for such a journey?”
“We do, of course. The vessel is equipped and provisioned for lengthy patrols well around the coast to the region of the South-halt and back.”
Gawain nodded. “Good. South and west, then. I would have Raheen in sight above the northern horizon when the Orb is cast into the deep.”
“Very well, my lord. By your leave, I’ll inform Balhaggan.”
“Please do.”
Gawain watched Tyrane approach the ship’s captain, and watched as Balhaggan cast a curious glance over his right shoulder towards him, and then saw the captain’s head bob an acknowledgement. The mariner was under King’s Orders, so Brock had said. Which was probably just as well, given that all aboard were seasoned veterans of many sea-battles against Gorian raiders.
Such acts of piracy and slavery had never been a concern for Raheen, though tales of course reached them atop their lofty perch on the plateau. Pirates and slavers made landfall along the Callodon coast, where geography permitted them so to do. The rope boom across the harbour mouth here at Porthmorl spoke of the need for watchfulness even here, some four day’s ride from the Castletown. Doubtless there were men of the coastguard stationed in those squat towers, now operating the capstans to lower the boom for the Melusine’s outward passage.
Sails began to unfurl, heavy canvas rustling, and the breezes which Balhaggan had promised earlier gently filled them, the ship sliding gracefully and silently towards the open sea.
“According to Balhaggan, we now have steerage, whatever that means,” Tyrane announced.
“Means we’re going fast enough for them to steer the ship, Serre,” Loryan said softly. “A good thing when passing out through a small gap like that one ahead.”
“You’re a sailor, Loryan?” Gawain asked, genuinely interested.
“No, Serre, just been on plenty of exercises aboard boats. Some big, some small, but they’re mostly all the same. We have to have training in case the Emp… in case it’s decided to travel by sea, and such.”
“Ah. Was Balhaggan surprised by the course I set, Tyrane?”
“A little, though he is of course under orders. He’s well aware that you command here, my lord. I think he’s far more concerned for your welfare than his ability to put the ship precisely where you want it. The sea can be rough, and some of us are clearly not sailors.”
“Did he mention how long it’ll take to get us there?”
“No.”
“Well, when we’re clear of the harbour and settled on course, perhaps you might ask him for me.”
“I shall, my lord, though I imagine it’s difficult to give a precise answer. We’re at the mercy of the wind, now.”
“And of the sea. You can give me a horse over a boat any day. The Sea of Hope was always a wonder to behold from the heights of Narrat. Now I’m on it, it looks dark, murky, and foreboding.”
“Aye, m’lord. Wet, too.”
oOo
60. Oaths
Five days after sailing from Porthmorl, Captain Balhaggan sent word to Gawain that for safety’s sake he was putting in to Port Yarris, there to weather a storm chasing hard on their heels. The Melusine had remained within sight of the coast of Callodon, clipping steadily through the waves on the following breezes, though now the sails were being reefed against the heavier winds which blew hard from the north and were backing easterly.
In truth, Gawain was happy to leave the entire business of sailing to Balhaggan and his crew. Even Allazar seemed greatly discomfited by the movement of the ship, though the Captain had quietly insisted that the passage so far had been undertaken in ‘almost perfect conditions for sailing.’ Not even the comfort of the bed in the cramped cabin alleviated Gawain’s suffering, and all of them, Berek included, had availed themselves of the quarter windows at least once and the bulwarks on deck often. Ognorm and Reesen were still far from their ‘sea legs’, and it was only pride and the need for fresh air that kept Gawain on deck, mostly in company with Loryan and Tyrane, for he too felt every pitch and roll of the vessel in the pit of his stomach.
Looking north though, the skies black and roiling, Gawain understood why Loryan had tied himself to a mast rather than suffer below decks during the storm on his journey from Zanatheum to the Eramak River. If the ship’s motion was disturbing enough for Gawain in ‘almost perfect conditions’, he dreaded to think how it might pitch and roll in the teeth of the tempest gaining on them now.
According to the map in his mind’s eye, they had sailed a little over three hundred miles along the coast to Port Yarris, and had another three hundred more ahead of them before they were due south of his mountain homeland. Another five days, plus however long they were laid at anchor in the harbour, and the Orb could be cast overboard. Wind permitting, of course.
It took three hours for Balhaggan and the crew to beat the Melusine into the calmer waters of Port Yarris harbour, and drop anchor. Rain was already lashing ahead of the storm, and Gawain and his companions were finally driven below. In the safety of the harbour, with the ship merely swinging on its anchor and rolling in occasional bro
adside gusts, the storm was more noise and bluster than danger, and their time in the cabin was spent in the hammocks, or in Gawain’s case, lying on the bed.
When the storm blew out, Balhaggan sent longboats ashore to take on fresh water and provisions, though the Melusine remained at anchor and no-one but the longboat crews were permitted ashore or back aboard. For the people of Port Yarris, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the presence of the brigantine, nor its taking shelter from the storm. The inhabitants of that fishing village had no idea who or what was aboard the vessel, which was as it should be.
When the ship put to sea once more, Gawain leaning on the bulwark of the poop deck and watching the village recede, he offered a quiet and heartfelt thank you to Port Yarris and its people; without their generosity the Razorwing at the Battle of Far-gor might have inflicted far more damage to the Kindred Army than they did.
The calm following the storm brought with it sunshine and a steady breeze, and the Melusine made good progress. During the voyage, Gawain told Tyrane of events in the dread city to which the Callodon officer had vowed never to go, and hearing them only reinforced Tyrane’s opinion of the place. Concerning the Gorians, Tyrane was circumspect; he knew only too well his king’s feelings about the Empire in the west and those who dwelt there.
But news of the rise of the Goth-lords, and of Maraciss in particular, saw Tyrane’s brow knit with concern. The two men stood on the transom, eyeing the ship’s wake streaming and foaming in the clear blue water behind them while dolphins danced alongside.
“Then it was the Emperor’s brother, in league with the Salaman Goth your lady slew, who invaded Pellarn?”
“It was. And according to Berek, if his minions had succeeded in obtaining the Orb, the Castletown itself would have been utterly destroyed by the device, as a test of its power.”
“By the Teeth!”
“Indeed. All of us, and all those in Pellarn too, have much to thank our Gorian friends for. The enemy had a large force, and it’s not certain by any means that the five of us who entered the forest from its eastern side could have prevailed against them by ourselves. I know Brock won’t be happy to hear about them, but I’ll worry about that after we’ve dumped that dreadful thing overboard.”